


no expectation of returns

by youcouldmakealife



Series: no expectation of returns [8]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1387795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you even know me at <i>all</i>?” Stephen asks. </p><p>Gabe looks at him, dumbfounded. “I’m trying to,” he says, finally, because for the first time in his life, he’s not sure he does. That if you strip Stephen of everything Gabe’s contextualized him with since they were kids, there isn’t anything Gabe can recognize. It’s a terrifying feeling. “Steve, I’m <i>trying</i>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	no expectation of returns

They don’t talk about it. They don’t talk about it the next morning, when Gabe’s too happy that Stephen’s there to mind. They don’t talk about it in the days the Canucks wait to find out their opponent, Stephen dragging Gabe out grocery shopping, Gabe dragging him to a bookstore in retaliation, chewing his lip, trying to find good stuff for the plane, while Stephen gathers up an armful of magazines and smiles beatifically when Gabe frowns at them. 

Stephen makes dinner from the ingredients Gabe snuck in the cart, and magazines litter the house like detritus, and they don’t talk about it. It’s like nothing’s changed, and the last thing Gabe wants is to mess this up between them, to lose the grocery shopping and the shoving for the good spot on the couch, any of it, but he can’t deal with this stop and start, this pretending nothing’s happened. Like things are the same as they were a year ago. A year ago Gabe was still trying his hardest to push this down, not to think about his feelings for Stephen. A year ago, Stephen made it more rounds into the playoffs than Gabe did. A year ago is irrelevant now.

In the end their opponent is the California Golden Seals, not a divisional rival like the North Stars, which is a mixed blessing, because they don’t know them as well. But it’s not like the Seals have their number either, and they just came out of a tight seven game series by the skin of their teeth, are exhausted, already down a few men. It’s promising, and the first game seals that, pun totally intended. It’s mostly the Canucks taking the Golden Seals’ temperature, trying shit out, but there’s no denying who won the game, and not just because of the score. 

Stephen’s in the crowd, bullied into it by Oksana, who rightfully scares him, and gets bullied right down into the locker room after, Gabe guesses from the vague consternation on his face and the accompaniment of Oksana. He fits in there, weirdly. Not him fitting in, because he’s always fit in a locker room, they grew up in locker rooms, and frequently the same ones. But the fact that he fits in like this, street clothes, no memorabilia on except an old Calder Cup had Gabe had given up for lost at least a year ago, and promptly snatches from his head.

“Dude,” he says.

“It doesn’t fit on your stupid big head,” Stephen argues.

Gabe scowls. “My head’s not stupid,” he argues. “The hat’s child-sized.”

“Uh huh,” Stephen says sceptically, reaching his hand out, and Gabe gives the hat back, because it really doesn’t fit him, and he likes seeing it on Stephen, because there’s no way in hell Stephen’s going to be wearing anything branded with an orca. 

“Good start,” Stephen says, then, “three more.”

Gabe glares, and Stephen yelps when Kurmazov snaps his towel against his back. “You know better,” he says. Stephen looks unremorseful.

The second game is even smoother than the first, Garmin hot and the whole team following his example, and they take it with another shutout for his records, another roaring, exuberant crowd around them, and they prepare to head down to Oakland with their blood singing, a whole redemptive arc wrapped up and waiting for them in the California sun. Gabe packs sunglasses, board shorts, a grit tooth determination, and Stephen watches him pack, leaning in the doorway and mocking Gabe’s insistence on packing two different bottles of sunscreen. But Gabe knows his teammates, and one guy is going to forget sunscreen and bitch about it the whole time instead of buying some. Or a dozen guys. Probably a dozen.

Stephen disappears to the kitchen while Gabe’s double-checking he has everything, and returns with a plastic bag. “Did you pack me snacks?” Gabe asks. “Thanks, mom!”

“Shut up,” Stephen says, going red. “And your dad packed your lunches.”

“Yeah, but calling you daddy’s just weird,” Gabe says, “considering--”

He cuts himself off, goes red himself, and Stephen, if it’s even possible, goes even redder.

“Right, thanks,” Gabe says quickly, taking the bag from Stephen. Stephen’s got his eyes down, a flush travelling from his cheeks down below the collar of his shirt, and impulsively Gabe presses a kiss to his hot cheek, pulls back. 

“Okay, bye,” Gabe says, still quick, and practically sprints out the door. He drives down the block before he gives in to the urge to knock his head against the steering wheel (at a stoplight, he’s not nuts). “You’re a fucking idiot, Gabriel,” he says. It’s a sad state of affairs that it sounds like Stephen’s voice in his ears.

By the time he’s on the plane, he’s not forgotten it, exactly, but forced himself to put it aside, jump headfirst into the restrained, tentative joy that permeates the atmosphere, everyone hopeful and no one willing to say it. They get to Oakland with a day to pull things together, and practice is tight, everyone clicking. The ice feels like it’s theirs.

It isn’t theirs. It starts out shitty from before the game even starts, a gigantic American flag unfurled in the Canucks’ defensive zone so that Garmin can’t wait the anthem out at his net like he always does, and he looks irritable and off-balance when he can finally skate over to his net just prior to opening face-off. Gabe would love to blame the game on that stupid stunt, but while Garmin does play off, distracted, he doesn’t have much in the way of defence in front of him, and the Canucks are having trouble getting the puck, let alone doing anything with it. At the end of the first they’re down 3-0, and they manage to get one in the second, hold the Golden Seals to that three, but in the end it’s a fruitless, ugly loss, 5-1, an embarrassing one, where no one can comfort themselves with platitudes, because they didn’t play like they wanted it.

It’s a subdued night, guys breaking down into pairs to go to dinner, or sulking with some room service, which is Gabe’s plan of action. Kurmazov stomps around the room like a caged animal, speaking rapid, furious Russian to someone, Oksana, probably, or his family, while Gabe tunes him out and nudges half-heartedly at his chicken. He’s got the standard condolence texts on his phone, family that stayed up to watch that embarrassment, Jake, who never made the playoffs and is a better person than Gabe because he actually means it when he says he’s sorry, a text from Stephen that just says _sucks_.

The next morning they’re all up, determined to do what they did with the North Stars, go home with three in hand and win it on home ice, make it to the Conference Finals, the Finals, _win_. 

It doesn’t turn out that way, at least taking three games home. The game may look better on the scoreboard, but it’s worse on the ice. If there was no defence in the last one, there’s negative defence this time, and the Golden Seals dominate puck possession throughout. Gabe barely touches the puck, but when he does, he inevitably ends up giving it up. When they trudge their way to the visitor’s room after the third, it’s 4-1 and the entire arena’s celebrating, minus the not insignificant number of Canucks fans who made their way there probably trudging out as well.

Gabe gets bawled out. The whole room does, basically, minus Garmin, who did pretty well considering he had no defence and somehow managed to stay above .920 despite that, but Gabe gets a special extra round of it in front of the room, a fucking thesaurus worth of synonyms for stupid thrown at him, which he deserves. He played stupid. He played loose against a team that had his number, and two of those goals are directly on him. 

“It’s not your fault,” Heenan says afterward, but he’s struggling with it, the C on his chest clearly fighting with the bitter taste in his mouth, in all their mouths.

“It was,” Gabe argues. “I’ll do better, though.” 

If he even has a chance to. 

No one’s talking on the way home, or if they are, it’s out of earshot. Sure as shit, no one’s talking to him. Kurmazov’s sitting beside him, but he’s got his eyes closed and his headphones blasting, a pretty clear sign that he may be sitting beside Gabe, but he’s about as interested in talking to him as anyone else is. Gabe takes in the atmosphere, as shitty as it is, because there’s less than no guarantee that he’ll be playing the next game. 

Two fucking takeaways and both of them converted into odd man rushes, into goals they couldn’t make back. It’s bad luck, maybe, but it’s shit play too, he doesn’t need anyone to tell him. Though they’re all more than entitled to, especially Garmin, but he doesn’t say anything to anyone except his backup, jaw tight and hat pulled low over his brow. It’s hard not to think about last year, about sashaying into the second round and then getting fucking shelled, and Gabe tries not to, but he can’t avoid it. He doubts anyone on this plane can.

They all head their separate ways after the flight to go lick their wounds. Kurmazov squeezes his shoulder without looking at him, and Heenan gives him a pretty poor attempt at a reassuring smile, but other than that Gabe slinks out unnoticed or ignored. Probably the latter. 

It’s late, and Gabe hopes Stephen’s sleeping, because Pittsburgh took their third, and Gabe doesn’t need some comparison to the Penguins tonight, or a Heenan-esque pep talk, or anything. So of course he comes back to the house lit up, because that’s exactly the way his day’s been going.

He heads to the kitchen, though, because there’s no point putting it off; the sooner he deals with the wry smile or the pitying look, the sooner he can go to bed, wake up tomorrow, start to atone to his team, this city, if they let him have the chance.

Stephen’s at the table with Sportsnet on, showing the highlights of some NBA game, a couple empties by his elbow.

“Yeah, it was that bad, eh,” Gabe asks, going for self-deprecating, hoping to cut off any pity at the pass. 

Instead, when Stephen looks up, he looks _pissed_ , and Gabe blinks back at him, wrong-footed.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“You played like shit,” Stephen bites out.

“Thanks,” Gabe snaps. “I didn’t notice. Not like my entire team is treating me like I’ve got the plague or anything.”

“If I was still playing,” Stephen says, voice rising, “I sure as shit wouldn’t be playing like that.”

“Right,” Gabe says, tired and frayed and furious. It’s mostly with himself, but he’s confronted that enough today. “Because you never had a bad game in your life, you were the best player in the entire world before you--” he stops.

“Before I what?” Stephen asks, standing up so they’re eye-to-eye. “Before I became a cripple? Before my entire career went up in flames? Finish your goddamn sentence, Gabe.”

“I--sorry,” Gabe says. “Sorry.”

“Fuck you,” Stephen yells. “Will you fucking fight with me for once instead of acting like I’ll start crying if you mention it. I have to fucking _live with this_. You think if you don’t mention it it’s going to be fine, and I’ll play house with you and you can go play games and maybe win the Cup and I’ll make you meals and fuck you after every win? Is that what you think?”

“We haven’t been fucking after every win, I would have noticed,” Gabe says, at a loss. 

Stephen snorts reluctantly. 

“I thought we weren’t talking about this,” Gabe says. “I thought you weren’t talking about this.”

“Well we’re talking about it,” Stephen says.

“Good,” Gabe says, fervent.

Stephen’s quiet, looks like he’s at a loss, suddenly, like he wants to bolt, frayed t-shirt and a pair of Gabe’s sweats, bare toes curling on the kitchen tile, hair messily waving around his eyes, like he never bothered to brush it after a shower. Gabe loves him so much in that moment that his teeth hurt.

“I’m fucking useless,” Stephen says. 

“You’re not--” Gabe starts.

“Just shut _up_ ,” Stephen says, and Gabe’s mouth snaps shut.

“I’m fucking useless,” Stephen says, and Gabe bites his tongue. “I can’t do shit anymore, any you’re just--you’ve got this, and what the fuck am I doing? Making a mess of your kitchen, basically.”

Gabe opens his mouth.

“Shut up,” Stephen says preemptively, and Gabe subsides. “You’ve been--you’ve been awesome about this, you’re always awesome, but how long is that going to last? How long until you get sick of me hanging around doing jack all? _I’m_ sick of me.”

“I’m not going to,” Gabe says quietly. “I never have.”

“Yeah,” Stephen says, “but shit was different then. Now you’re doing shit I can’t, and I’m--I’m not mad at you, but what am I supposed to do here, Gabe, just watch you do it?”

“What do you want me to do?” Gabe asks, plaintive. “You want me to quit? We could--we could go to school, our grades were--”

Stephen grabs Gabe’s wrist with his good hand, grip tight enough that Gabe can feel his bones grind together, shuts his mouth with click.

“I love you,” Stephen says, quiet and fervent, and Gabe’s stomach twists--there’s unspeakable relief, finally figuring out what will make Stephen happy, and dread at what it is. “And if you offer that again I will walk out the door and you will never see me again. 

Gabe stares at him. 

“Do you even know me at _all_?” Stephen asks. 

Gabe looks at him, dumbfounded. “I’m trying to,” he says, finally, because for the first time in his life, he’s not sure he does. That if you strip Stephen of everything Gabe’s contextualized him with since they were kids, there isn’t anything Gabe can recognize. It’s a terrifying feeling. “Steve, I’m _trying_.”

Stephen opens his mouth.

“Yeah,” Gabe says quickly. “I know, don’t call you Steve.”

Stephen laughs a little wetly.

“C’mere,” Gabe says, and Stephen walks right into his arms, lets Gabe wrap an arm around his waist, tuck their foreheads together. “Hi,” Gabe says quietly, and Stephen’s laugh sounds closer to a sob. “Like I could get sick of you. You idiot.”

“I don’t have anything,” Stephen says, shaky. “I don’t. I--”

“You have me,” Gabe says. “And I know that’s not--I know that doesn’t really help, but you have me, and we’ll figure it out. But you--I love you, and you have to stop running from me, Steve.” He pauses. “And you deserve that ‘Steve’, you’re Steve until you stay.”

Stephen laughs again, broken, and Gabe presses a kiss against his cheekbone, wet under his lips.

“Please,” Gabe says, quiet. 

“Okay,” Stephen says, just as soft, and lets Gabe reel him in that little bit further, pull him into a kiss. He breathes out shakily into Gabe’s mouth.

“And I totally expect to get laid after every win,” Gabe mumbles, and Stephen hits him with his good hand, settles both against Gabe’s chest. He hasn’t put on the brace, and this is probably the first time Gabe’s properly seen his bare wrist, the vivid scarring halfway up his forearm, the slightly strange angle he holds it at.

“Can I--” Gabe starts, and Stephen nods jerkily, exhales when Gabe reaches up to wrap his fingers around Stephen’s wrist, gentle, and then when Stephen says, testy already, “I’m not made of glass,” with a normal grip.

“Does it hurt?” Gabe asks, quiet. He doesn’t feel any different beneath the curl of Gabe’s fingers, not fundamentally. Raised, uneven texture, scar tissue in surgical lines, but there’s still his pulse hammering under Gabe’s fingertips. Still freckled, fair skin, albeit broken by the livid pink.

“A little,” Stephen says, and when Gabe flinches, starts to pull his hand back. “Do it anyway.”

“Yeah?” Gabe asks, and when Stephen nods, he rubs his thumb over the thin, vulnerable skin. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Little thing about the Golden Seals 'American flag in opposing team's defensive zone' before someone gets, well, defensive about me being Anti-American or something. I have no idea if the Golden Seals ever did this, since, you know, they moved before I was born (later became Cleveland, then merged into the North Stars, then became Dallas. They are probably cursed.), but the Los Angeles Kings DID in reality do it in last year's playoffs, and it deeply unsettled the (American) opposing goaltender. Don't fuck with goalie traditions, man. Just don't. 
> 
> Oh and also this is the final part! I almost forgot.


End file.
